Verlassen § Lamm § Beichte: Confession
by Aslan Zala
Summary: The beginning of Lamm of the Verlassen series -- just a short vignette. n.n


Yes, I know that I started writing with Lamm. And yes, Lamm _is_ the last arc of Verlassen. Too bad. I got this idea out of nowhere and I _had_ to get it down -- and doesn't it stand well enough on its own for now? (*heehee*) Read and review, onegai! I thrive on feedback. 

And correct my German titles if they're wrong. PLEASE. 

  


Verlassen § Lamm § Beichte

Forsaken § Lamb § Confession 

The bells were tolling when he walked up to the cathedral, the sound tenebrous, melancholy. It was eleven at night; Sunday services were long over, leaving the entire grand cathedral to just this one boy -- a boy who felt ridiculously tiny beside the monoliths of glass, stone and faith. 

The cathedral was comfortingly dark in all the pews, light only illuminating the alter upon the dais and the cross with the Christ spread like an offering upon it. 

The boy made no movement towards neither dais nor cross -- he simply lit a single candle from the others laid out for just that purpose, then stood there, watching the light flicker and play along the faces of the Virgin and the Child. He made not a sound as he turned away, sinking into the familiar darkness that enveloped him as if returning him to the womb. 

He took his place in the very back pew on the far left side, turning his gaze upwards towards the dome, the colored glass revealing the stormy, violent night he had escaped from. He knew the others were waiting for him back home... He'd probably get yelled at by at least one of them -- what was he thinking, staying out until all odd-end hours of the night? It wasn't like him... 

But then, the blood on his hands wasn't like him -- or at least... it shouldn't have been. He looked so clean, so pure, so innocent -- and yet, he had more blood on his hands, his body, his soul than the others combined. They all tried to deny it -- they often completely forgot that this was all he knew. 

The holy water in the bowl near him was drenched red in the candlelight; wryly, the boy noticed that it was only after he had dipped his fingers in it that the liquid had begun to soak up the color. When he had come in, it had been clear... 

"Confiteor Deo omnipotenti..." He had no idea when he had picked up the Latin confessional, but now the words slipped, perfectly accented, from his lips. 

"Beatae Mariae semper Virgini..." Eyes shadowed to the point of blackness trailed their gaze now along the walls, watching shadow and light -- black, grey, white -- wrestle for dominance like bitter lovers along the cold marble statues of Christ, Mary, Michael... 

"Beato Michaeli archangelo..." He would swear for the rest of his life that the statue of the archangel looked at him, lips curving into a feral grin. 

"Sanctis apostolis, omnibus sanctis..." They always smiled at him. They'd been smiling at him all his life through the river of red, red blood... 

"Et tibi, Pater..." For a moment, the image of the man who could have paid his ransom -- could have saved him -- sprang to the boy's mind... the man who could have saved him, but didn't. 

"Quia peccavi nimis, cogitatione..." His mind flashed back to their last mission -- their target had been a priest from this very church. It seemed the blackness he tried so hard to purge ran rampant, unchecked, in the one place where there should have been safety. 

"Verbo..." His words were nearly always a lie. Yes, of course he's fine. No, nothing's bothering him. If one paints a smile on the clown, no one notices the clown weeping. 

"Et opere..." The boy's vision swam with so many faces, all contorted into various stages of shock, outrage, fear, as they fell riddled with arrows, darts, daggers... 

"Mea culpa..." Daggers... He pulled a small, keenly sharp blade from the back band of his boxers. He had railed against it, so long ago, insisting that boys didn't sew. He knew better, now -- the blades in the slim sheaths he had sewn into the bands of every pair of boxers he owned had saved his life more than once. 

"Mea culpa..." He brought the blade against pale white skin, watching with a sort of distant fascination as a thin line of red crept to the surface. 

"...Mea maxima culpa..." He smiled. 

* * *

_I confess to God Almighty  
To blessed Maria, ever Virgin  
To the blessed archangel Michael  
To the holy apostles, to all the saints  
And to you, Father  
That I have sinned  
In thought, in word  
And in deed  
Through my own fault  
Through my own fault  
Through my own grievous fault_


End file.
